The coals blacken as I watch the fire die, I know they will cool if I let them, if I left them. 
I stir them with the end of the poker, 
splitting them to their red centers, sparks dancing. 
I make a bed of the hottest -coals, 
and frame it with the burned husks of two� 
dead lengths of wood. I catch some kindling in the ashes, in the new flames-
They catch, spark, writhe in motionless, silent agony. 
Over this bed of burning wood, a full foot thick block of cut wood. The sides burn as the underneath is scored away by flame, carving the middle like a forgotten canoe. 

It will lay there, on the top of the bed of fire and ashes, coals and heat, until the only combustible left is itself. The sides will keep the top burning, and 
the bottom will keep the sides burning, until it settles, and puts itself out. 

Hollowed out and blackened, tomorrow, the ashes will be cooled, 
black to the core, carbon and soot. 
Rather burn red and twist into sparks, 
Than lie in the darkness, collapsed and fallen in on myself, burnt through the center, pierced by the dancing lights and popping in the veins. 

Soon the time of year, will be of sleepy looking hamlet houses, 
Suburbia denied by the low hanging chimney smoke, white from the pellet stoves, 
barbecue stoves that light with electric switch, dimmer slide, to make the flames
rise. 

Break the middle, and be under the collapsing weight,
Pushed to the ground, eternally, 
Flames licking at that strong center already, 
Tasting but wishing they could bite, as they lick all hope away. 


She is still there
                                                             Hidden. 
	Cleverly hiding from me,
Right under, 			left under,
		My flesh, 

Breathing into my ear, whispering love and hope and happiness as her breasts swell against the inside of my chest, pressure on my heart 
to stop the beating, stop the violent beating. 

Her fingers and hands still hold tightly to my bones, curled, again as the ivy, 
again as the oak, 
into patterns mysterious that could be
The Good Lord if only he would speak through her, and answer my unanswerable questions,
The transcendent quality of being dea(alive)d, and not caring that neither nor isn�t
Always open to finding another. 


Already the coals falter, fault her, 
As they have spilt away from the solid form, and broken themselves,
burn up trying to find a way to be again what they never were. 


Cleverly hiding from me.